


You are my unexpected

by Links



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, F/F, Femlock, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Joan, everybody got genderswapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-19 08:52:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11309973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Links/pseuds/Links
Summary: What she didn’t expect to hear was Sherlock replying with a nonchalant voice which didn’t suit her at all “Okay, then. Since you’re buying, I might make an effort and listening to what you have to say on that matter…”NOW COMPLETE!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few days ago, I saw that prompt on Tumblr "Jealous!John with a side of fem!lock please".  
> Well... here is my answer!  
> That first chapter is somewhat angsty but don't worry... You know me after all :)

 

The stranger’s dulcet tones reached her ears even before Joan reached the top of the stairs.

“Oh, I’m sure that, for a lady like you, it’ll be child’s play!”

Joan suddenly stopped on the last step, her head lightly tilted, listening very carefully to Sherlock’s answer. Thank God for their flat’s door which has been left ajar.

“Indeed,” she retorted in that posh voice, which was wreaking delightful havoc on Joan’s nerves. “It might even seem _too_ easy.”

She couldn’t help feeling a surge of vindictive satisfaction.

_Take that, Mister Intruder._

She smiled at the thought of the stranger realising that Sherlock wasn’t likely to swoon over the case he has brought to her attention. Neither would her lovely face – in Joan’s perfectly biased opinion – lose what she has dubbed her “Ice Queen” mask.

No, Sherlock would stay as she always was in front of a potential client – aloof and attentive at the same time, her green gaze unwaveringly fixed on the man in front of her.

And if he wasn’t already feeling irritated at Sherlock’s attitude, Joan thought, the flow of rash words, each of them intended to demonstrate the fact that yes, she could read him like an open book, would surely deflate what was left of his ego.

Her heart suddenly as light as a feather, Joan sprang on the last step, setting the grocery bag in her left hand gently swaying.

The interloper would flee with his tail between his legs, Sherlock would delete the whole encounter from her mind while Joan would make dinner. Later, they would share a warm meal together, just both of them. Joan could already imagine the scene, both lovely and familiar – Sherlock playing with her food, listening to the stories that Joan has saved just for her. It was one of the rare perks of working in a hair salon – you were never short of ridiculous, perfectly laughable tales.

And Sherlock was enjoying them, raising a dark eyebrow, always ready to retort something which would send Joan into fits of laughter.

In short – the perfect evening.

As for the cases, she mused, they could always wait for Lestrade’s. After all, they almost always were more interesting than the “mysteries” brought by private clients.

Joan was about to nudge the door open and noisily announce her presence – another trick to get rid of the client who was clearly overstaying his welcome – when she heard

“Oh, my dear Miss Holmes, I’m afraid you underestimate my… case. I bet you’ll be more curious about it over dinner. That’s why I have taken the liberty of booking a table for two at _La Table Gourmande_."

Joan was so flabbergasted she almost choked on her own spit.

She couldn’t believe what she has just heard.

The gall of that man.

She clenched her fists, struggling to keep her dwindling self-control.

She hasn’t felt such anger since she has joined the army, ready to tear to pieces anyone standing in her way.

Her hand on the door’s handle, she remained motionless, eyes closed. Fighting the urge to rush into their flat and to kick the intruder between his legs until his balls were nothing else than a mere souvenir.

_And how would you like that, Mister I-can-do-as-I-please?_

Afterwards she might finally be brave enough to do what she has dreamed of as soon as she has met Sherlock…

Sherlock, who could shred anyone’s inflated pride or vanity with one of her barbs.

Sherlock, who never seemed to care about the insults – “You stuck up bitch!” – or the derisive jeers – “Someone’s got her period this week!” – her attitude provoked.

Joan took a deep breath.

She would trust Sherlock. She would trust her friend, who certainly wouldn’t waste any time in taking Mister Conceited down a whole series of pegs.

What she didn’t expect to hear was Sherlock replying with a nonchalant voice which didn’t suit her at all “Okay, then. Since you’re buying, I might make an effort and listening to what you have to say on that matter…”

_What? No!_

She couldn’t accept.

She simply couldn’t.

Not her. Not her Sherlock.

Joan gulped, nausea suddenly brewing in her stomach.

She barely heard the man she already hated with all her might crying out “I knew I would win you over!”

She was still reeling from shock when the door suddenly opened in front of her.

Sherlock, dressed as usual in black from head to toe, was still smiling brightly at the stranger standing behind her when she spotted her friend.

“Joan.”

Looking up, Joan saw that bright smile disappear in a flash and annoyance briefly shining in Sherlock’s gaze.

_She wasn’t expecting me back so soon. And now I’m standing in her way._

Completely humiliated, she took a step backwards.

“Sherlock,” she replied, spitting the beloved name.

She knew that the longer she was standing here, under Sherlock’s ever attentive gaze, the more she was giving herself away. No doubt her flatmate could read in the angry line of her jaw, her refusal to meet her eyes all the feelings she has stubbornly ignored until now.

Trying to bury them as deep as she could, persuading herself that Sherlock’s friendship was enough.

Such bullshit.

And now she was paying the price of her foolishness.

“Oh, hello there!”

Without a care for Sherlock’s personal space, her companion came between them both, his hand outstretched.

“And what’s the name of your lovely friend, Miss Holmes?”

_It’s Miss I-don’t-need-anyone-to-speak-for-me-you-bastard._

“Joan Watson.”

She shook his hand as hard as she could and had the pleasure to seeing him wince.

However, it didn’t stop him ogling her breasts.

_You pig._

She sneaked a look at Sherlock, hoping to see her wink, to read on her face some sign that this wasn’t real. That it was some setup for a case she wasn’t aware of yet.

But Sherlock remained withdrawn, not looking at her in the eye.

So much for being afraid that she would deduce her.

_That’s settled then._

Dejected, Joan turned her head away.

“Would you like to join us, Miss Watson?”

_Are you hoping for a threesome now, bastard? Because I should give you just that if that’s your wish. With my hands on your neck and my knee in your groin. Let’s see how you enjoy that!_

Before she could answer however, Sherlock broke in

“Joan is not interested. And now we shall leave.”

And without looking back, she turned round and walked down the stairs.

“Of course, my dear!” her date said. He flashed a last smile to Joan. “It has been a pleasure, Miss Watson.”

She remained on the landing, unable to believe what has just happened.

Listening to Sherlock’s laughing voice calling her companion.

Her heart breaking in a thousand pieces.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a bit angsty but I promise it'll get better soon!

Joan has never felt like such a fool before.

Two o’clock in the morning. And Sherlock was still out.

In the darkness of the living room, only disturbed by the street lamps outside, Joan was sitting in her usual armchair, hands folded in front of her face in a poor imitation of Sherlock’s pose when she was seeking refuge in her Mind Palace.

No Mind Palace for Joan, however.

In truth, she was seething.

Seething with rage, jealousy, bitter disappointment.

Angry feelings running in her veins, all directed at her.

_How could you let this happen? How could you leave her alone with this guy?_

Joan stared at the screen of her mobile phone.

No text. No missed call.

She snorted.

It seemed that Sherlock didn’t need her help.

_She doesn’t need me._

She sagged into the sofa cushions, tipping her head back against the back of her armchair.

Closing her eyes.

Time to admit the truth.

It wasn’t the thrill of a case which has driven Sherlock to accept her client’s invitation.

It was…

_What? What was it? Do you really think she would feel the urge to get her leg over? With such a disgusting pig to boot?_

Joan groaned. No, she didn’t think so.

How was she supposed to explain Sherlock’s behaviour, though?

Not that her flatmate owed her any kind of explanation.

But something in her, some kind of protective, basic instinct towards her friend didn’t want to drop this issue. It was pushing her to remain here, waiting for Sherlock’s reappearance, instead of going upstairs and trying to fall asleep.

An instinct which was born of many evenings spent together in the comfortable cocoon of Baker Street, teasing each other, watching crap TV together. The same instinct which has snapped Joan out of her apathy when she has met Sherlock at Bart’s, pushing her to accept to meet her later at 221b.

_Flatmates should know the worst about each other, don’t you think?_

Flatmates. Friends. Partners in crime – or rather in the fight against it.

_Lovers, if you have been brave enough. If you have made a move._

She shook her head. The lure of the bottle of wine, still half-open in the fridge, was tempting but Joan needed to keep a clear head. Besides, she didn’t feel like falling into the same trap as her brother Harry, using alcohol as an emotional crutch.

When she has started to get to know Sherlock, she has believed her to be asexual. Or at least someone who didn’t feel desire or have sexual urges in the way most people do.

And that was fine, Joan has thought. She has already accepted Sherlock the way she was - her brilliant mind, her unwillingness to observe social niceties, her rash impatience. Every feature that other people – even Sherlock’s own sister – considered as annoying, even horrifying, Joan succeeded in appreciating them.

In truth, she liked Sherlock as she was.

_Don’t fool yourself, girl – you love her._

She shrugged.

Of course she was in love with her. How could she resist?

But, in deference to Sherlock’s feelings, which were certainly very different from her own, and to their friendship, Joan has repressed every thrill, every shiver which has racked without mercy her frame when she met Sherlock’s gaze a little too long or when they brushed against each other in the cramped space of the flat’s kitchen.

And the situation has remained that way until Max Adler has appeared in their life.

Charming, ruthless, cunning Max Adler who, with a smile and a jest, has turned Joan’s perception of Sherlock upside down.

Who has brought the question as regards Sherlock’s sexuality out into the open and aroused Joan’s jealousy.

A fact of which he was perfectly aware, considering his parting words to her

“I bet you really wish for the slightest opportunity to empty your gun into me, don’t you, pet?”

He has been right. She would have done everything to keep Sherlock safe from the danger he seemed to represent. And it was a worrying thought.

Because there was a thin line between wishing to protect someone and intruding on her privacy, removing her free will out of the equation under the pretext of keeping her safe.

Joan gave a loud sigh. It became so difficult to sort herself out. Sometimes she was tempted to forget every caution, to kneel at Sherlock’s feet when she was sitting in the sofa and to whisper in her ear _I love you and I always will. I ask nothing more than to live by your side. Let me stay with you. I need you._

But would Sherlock want the same thing?

Or would her desire for a companion, male or female, drive them apart?

_If she came back with him in tow…_

His hands on her body. His lips on hers. His tongue on her pale skin.

She whimpered – a pitiful sound echoing in the flat.

She was gripping the armrests with such strength her knuckles turned white.

She wouldn’t be able to accept this, she knew.

The slam of the front door interrupted her thoughts. Joan sat up, pricking up her ears.

The relief she felt when she heard familiar footsteps in the stairs was staggering.

Until the flat’s door opened and, thanks to the light flooding the landing, she could see Sherlock’s face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning - in this chapter a rape case is discussed. It isn't detailed or anything but I prefer warning you.

Joan was on her feet in the blink of an eye, walking to Sherlock, unconsciously reaching out before she could realise it.

It was only when Sherlock took a step back, her face betraying her discomfort at the idea of being touched, that Joan stopped.

She flicked the switch on, gasping when the bruise on Sherlock’s right cheekbone was revealed to its full extent.

“What happened?” she growled, clenching her hands.

Murderous ideas were already invading her mind, all directed at Sherlock’s “date”. She would kill him with her bare hands, she decided. Adrenalin was pulsing through her veins, creating this buzz of energy just begging to be released. Joan has already experienced this feeling when she was in the army, getting ready for an offensive.

But now it wasn’t for the sake of the British Army. No, if she would take up arms, it would be against the nasty piece of shit who has hurt his friend.

_I would make him regret the day he has ever set foot in our flat._

“Stop it.”

Sherlock’s curt words put an end to Joan’s bloody fantasy.

“I wasn’t doing…”

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted her. “You were.”

She turned round, removing her coat before hanging it on the peg. She was moving slowly, with none of her usual grace or energy. Joan stared at her, bile rising in her throat, an anguished knot forming in her chest. She swallowed several times before asking

“Won’t you at least tell me what happened?”

_Can’t you see your silence is killing me?_

Sherlock shrugged, letting out an instinctive hiss of pain before smothering it.

Too late.

“You’re hurt.”

“That’s nothing, you…”

Joan tuned her out. She dodged Sherlock’s outstretched hand in a vain attempt to keep her at arm’s length. She wrapped instead delicate fingers around Sherlock’s arm, dragging her gently along until the other woman had no other choice but to sit down.

“It’s completely unnecessary and…”

“I will decide what is necessary and what is not. Take off your blouse.”

Joan rolled her eyes at Sherlock’s shocked face.

“Don’t look at me like this, I’ve already seen you in your underwear. Come on!”

Her flatmate gave her an angry glare before huffing and finally undoing her blouse. Joan tried not to stare at the milky skin being slowly revealed or at the dark lacy bra. She decided instead to focus on the glaring bruise already blooming on Sherlock’s ribs. Joan’s clenched jaw and closed-off face contrasted with her gentle fingers as she delicately palpated the skin.

No broken bones, at least.

“Do you hurt anywhere else?” she asked while opening the ointment balm.

Sherlock’s whispered “No” – just a puff of warm breath against her hair – made her shiver.

_Eyes on the task, Watson._

Despite her resolve to remain as tight-lipped as Sherlock about her “date”, Joan couldn’t help but say “He has really done a number on you.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Oh please, that’s nothing. You should have seen the state he was in when I was done with him.”

Joan felt a vicious thrill of pleasure at these words.

“I take it you won’t see him anymore, then?”

Her impulsive question was followed by a few seconds of silence. Just when Joan was starting to get unnerved – why did she have to ask this? – Sherlock suddenly let out a booming laugh. Even though Joan secretly loved this sound, a sure sign that Sherlock was trusting her enough to let her guard down around her, it now grated on her nerves.

“Joan, you’re really an idiot.”

Even Sherlock’s smile didn’t take the sting out of her words. Joan turned her head away, trying to conceal the embarrassed flush across her face.

“Always glad to amuse you,” she retorted in a clipped voice. “Now, if you don’t need my help anymore, I’m going to…”

Strong fingers gently gripping her chin left her speechless. She looked up. Sherlock’s blue-green gaze held her prisoner. There was no trace of amusement in her voice when she asked

“Do you really think I was going on a date with this guy?”

_I don’t know what to think anymore when you’re concerned. And it’s becoming a real problem._

“If that was a case, why didn’t you involve me then? I was… waiting for…”

She choked on her words.

Sherlock released her chin – not quick enough though that Joan couldn’t see the slight tremor in her fingers.

“He was a serial rapist. Operating in Clapham and Brixton, going out with women, making them talk, playing the part of Prince Charming before attacking them in their homes a few days later.”

Joan stared at her open-mouthed before standing up, fury raising its ugly head in her heart. Before she could utter a word, Sherlock resumed, not looking at her.

“Encouraged by his victims’ silence – until now only two of them have pressed charges against their attacker – Mister Cox believed himself to be invulnerable. So he moved on to what he considered as his next challenge – me.”

“Did he try to…?”

She couldn’t even finish her question, she was shaking with such a mix of anger and fear she has never felt before. Sherlock briefly looked up at her before turning her head away.

“No. I didn’t fit the profile he was looking for in women. But he couldn’t resist the temptation of spending a few hours with me, on the pretext of consulting me on a case, so he could boast afterwards that I haven’t seen him for what he really was. That I was some kind of fraud.”

Even lost as she was in the feelings storming their way in her heart, Joan couldn’t miss Sherlock’s bitter half-smile. An expression she knew only too well. In this world where women were constantly at risk of being downplayed by their male counterparts, especially if they didn’t fit into the usual mould, Sherlock was sticking out like a sore thumb.

Joan sometimes mused how it would have turned out if Sherlock was born male. Would it have been different?

In some ways, yes.

She shook her head. This time, she wouldn’t give Sherlock the opportunity to derail their discussion. She would stay focused.

“And you didn’t think I could help you, then? You preferred catching him all on your own?”

“Of course not!” Sherlock protested, struggling to stand up and putting on her blouse again before making her way towards the kitchen, where she put the kettle on. “Myrcella has sent me backup. I was surrounded by her men and Lestrade’s team.”

Somehow it made things even worse. Everybody has been involved – except her.

“They didn’t stop him from hitting you!” she retorted.

Sherlock, who was looking for her tea supply in the kitchen cupboards, gave a grunt of annoyance.

“In the end, he cottoned on to the whole thing a bit quicker than I expected him to do. He tried to jump me before running away, but Lestrade tackled him from behind. And I took the opportunity to make sure he would stay put.”

Joan gritted her teeth.

“Great to know that from now on, Lestrade is your new partner. Is she going to be your new flatmate as well?”

She was talking nonsense, she knew it, but she couldn’t help but lashing out at her friend.

_A friend who has forgotten you tonight._

“Don’t be silly,” Sherlock retorted with a frown. “You know that…”

“I don’t know anything anymore when you are concerned.”

Joan saw Sherlock being taken aback by her confession. But once she has started, she couldn’t stop.

“When I came in earlier and you spotted me on the landing, you were downright annoyed. You didn’t expect me back so soon and you didn’t intend to let me know where you were going with this piece of shit, is that right?”

Sherlock remained silent, head bent over the kettle.

“Is that right, Sherlock?” Joan repeated.

“You know it is, why do you ask then?”

She expected that answer, but God… It hurt.

It hurt so much.

She closed her eyes, trying to keep the tears at bay.

“Why? Why did you keep me in the dark? I never said “no” when you needed help, even when your sister was involved! You know how much I love…”

_I love you_ was on her lips, but she choked it back.

“… I love taking part in your work. For God’s sake, Sherlock, I even killed a man for you!”

“He wasn’t supposed to see you!” Sherlock suddenly cried out, banging her fist on the table.

She rushed towards Joan, who was left speechless by this angry outburst, until she could put her hands on her shoulders.

“You want to know why I left you out?” she nearly growled these words.

Joan nodded, unable to look away from Sherlock’s feverish gaze.

“Because all his victims were short, busty and blonde. They looked like you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you it would get better :)

“Because all his victims were short, busty and blonde. They looked like you.”

Joan gaped at her before pushing Sherlock away. She took a few steps back – it was better for them both if they remained apart from each other at this moment.

“Did you forget I’m an army Captain? Or that I had a gun? Did you think that, if I had been involved in that case, it would have been the first time I might have to defend myself?”

Arms crossed over her chest, Sherlock has lapsed into a sullen silence, which only succeeded in enraging Joan further.

“Damn you to hell, Sherlock, you and your assumptions! Am I only to serve when needed, then? Do you have somewhere a special list of situations which might be far too much for poor little me, according to which you judge it would be better to keep me in the dark and leave me here, fretting about what might happen to you?”

_Stop here, stop! You’re saying far too much…_

Panting for breath, heart beating triple time, she stared at her friend.

If she still deserves that title.

She wanted to scream again her fury and disappointment at Sherlock, but what she heard, coming from her own mouth, was “I can’t do this.”

She closed her eyes. She wasn’t ready to deal with the consequences of what she has just said.

_If I ever will be ready to do so._

She turned on her heels, feeling completely lost. Her anger has disappeared, leaving only in its wake intense weariness and the certainty of having shown her hand far too much.

God only knows what Sherlock might deduce from all this.

“Wait.”

It was barely a whisper and yet it seemed to echo endlessly in the room. Joan shook her head.

“I’m tired, Sherlock. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Or later.”

If there was anything still worth talking about, she thought.

“No!”

Joan groaned. _Now_ she wanted to talk.

“Has anyone ever told you how infuriating you…” she cries out, turning round.

She broke off, finding Sherlock much closer than expected. Barely a few inches between them both.

“You don’t understand.”

Thanks to the unexpected proximity, Joan could feel her warmth. Sherlock never wore any perfume – “they give me headaches” – but she liked to use a specific brand of body cream and Joan could breathe in the familiar scent.

She became aware she was staring at Sherlock’s plump mouth and managed to look away, swallowing heavily.

“Yeah, I sometimes forgot I’m an idiot.”

“That’s not…” Sherlock angrily started before stopping. Out of the corner of her eye Joan saw her friend nervously running a hand through her mop of curls. Time for the hairdresser, she absentmindedly mused, even if she did like it in this state – a bit longer and more disheveled than usual.

Gosh. Was she really fantasizing about her friend’s hair?

“He wasn’t supposed to see you.”

“You’ve already said that.”

Without taking her interruption into account, Sherlock said

“He asked me about you, you know. Trying to worm information out of me.”

A steely glint was shining in her gaze.

“In the end, I became so tight-lipped that he became aware of his mistake. He tried to cover up by outrageously flirting with me, trapping one of my feet under his own.”

She shrugged.

“That’s when I kicked him in the balls.”

Torn between horrified disgust at the idea that this piece of shit has asked about her and amusement when she imagined the messy brawl that must have occurred at _La Table Gourmande_ , Joan chose the latter.

“Lestrade must have thrown a fit,” she chimed in when she managed to calm down.

“A little bit. Such a drama queen – she had all the necessary proof to put Cox under lock and key. His fingerprints on the tableware, all the hints he couldn’t stop himself from dropping during our little chat…”

Sherlock quickly lost her smile and turned serious again. She lets her eyes travel over Joan’s face.

“But I couldn’t care about all this.”

She raised a trembling hand towards Joan until her fingertips brushed against her cheekbone. Joan fought the temptation to lean into the unexpected touch and held her breath.

“I only cared about you. The fact that you were here, safe within these walls, that Cox couldn’t touch one hair of your head… Nothing else mattered to me.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, her vulnerability so obviously revealed in her gaze it almost hurt Joan to see it.

“I know you’re a soldier. I know you killed for me and that you can handle yourself in a fight. I never took you for some delicate flower.”

“I would have kicked you in the shin if you have done so.”

Sherlock’s hand against her cheek was so warm. It would be so easy to forget all this and take comfort from this simple touch. But Joan knew it wouldn’t dissipate all the doubts and misunderstandings which seemed to brew between them.

“I… I’m sorry.”

Two words that Joan has almost never heard in her friend’s mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock repeated, her expression so earnest, so sincere that Joan couldn’t look away. “I know I should have talked to you about it. About Cox and the setup. But I was a coward. I was afraid to put you in danger and… I decided to leave you out.”

She let out a mirthless laugh.

“And to think I almost lost you doing so.”

There was too much for Joan – she reached out, drawing Sherlock close to her, hugging her with all her might and to hell with boundaries and personal space. Besides, Sherlock’s embrace turned out to be as fierce as her own. As if now that she had Joan in her arms, she wouldn’t ever let her go.

“I’m still here”, Joan whispered, her lips brushing against Sherlock’s skin.

_I’m here and I’ll never go away._

Her friend didn’t reply, holding her a bit tighter. Not that Joan intended complaining about the stifling embrace. On the contrary, she fully enjoyed the feeling of Sherlock’s tall, lean body against her own. It was an overwhelming experience, being so close to her and wanting so much more.

_I would devour you if I had the chance._

The silence between them, tinged with remorse and forgiveness, turned sensual, becoming more and more sexually charged – at least for Joan.

She sighed, trying to commit to memory the softness of Sherlock’s hair, the firmness of her small, slender breasts against her own chest, the warmth of her palms laid flat on her back.

_I had to release her. Otherwise I’d do things I would regret later._

She gently attempted to extricate herself from Sherlock’s embrace. An attempt which was completely foiled with her friend’s persistence in clinging to her. Joan shivered when she felt through the thin fabric of her T-shirt Sherlock’s nails grazing her skin.

A wet heat started to throb between her legs.

Joan asked with as much patience as she could muster right now “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

_Not that I mind so much being your koala bear, but you don’t want to deal with the consequences, trust me._

She felt her friend taking a deep breath before letting out a great sigh. She got free and walked away so suddenly Joan couldn’t help but feeling bereft.

“Sorry… You’re right, I shouldn’t keep you longer, it’s late and you’re tired…”

She was babbling, not looking at Joan in the eye, arms rigidly alongside her body. But all Joan could see was the dark flush across her face.

_He wasn’t supposed to see you._

_I only cared about you._

_Nothing else mattered to me._

And when has Sherlock ever be distracted so much from her work that she nearly jeopardized a police operation? Never.

Joan groaned. Gosh, she has been a fool.

She didn’t let herself think of what she was doing.

She walked to Sherlock, still babbling about Lestrade and DNA traces, and grabbed her face between her hands.

“Sherlock? Shut up.”

And she kissed her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the smut begins...

Sherlock remained frozen during a few seconds before clasping Joan in her arms and kissing her back with a heady mix of enthusiasm and inexperience.

Let me, Joan thought, before tilting up her head, capturing first Sherlock’s upper lip between her own, then releasing her and doing the same to the lower lip.

From frantic and unsure, the kiss turned firmer and more sensual.

Joan opened first her mouth, letting her tongue come into play.

Tracing a series of harder, shorter kisses along Sherlock’s mouth, eliciting a moan from the other woman.

Her fingers threaded into Sherlock’s curly hair, fingernails lightly grazing her scalp, while her other hand was delicately stroking her jaw.

_I love you. I want you._

And even if she was drowning into a sensual haze, her body starved for physical connection, arching up into Sherlock’s firmer touch, Joan realized they didn’t have to rush this.

Sherlock didn’t seem to have got this specific memo though – when she felt Joan drawing a little away, she held her tighter and opening her mouth, licked the seam of Joan’s lips. At the same time, her hands dropped lower until reaching Joan’s plush bottom and cupping it in her large palms.

Joan whimpered in her lover’s mouth.

_Oh God._

She surrendered to this erotic, relentless onslaught, putting her arms around Sherlock’s neck, moaning her pleasure while her lover’s hands wandered all over her body – stroking her ass, her back, the nape of her neck, her scalp.

Cataloguing Joan’s reactions to the touch of her fingers, her tongue, her lips, her teeth.

Incoherent sounds were coming out of her open mouth while she felt Sherlock lifting up her night shirt.

“Take it off.”

Joan drew back a little, shivering with delight when she felt Sherlock helping her removing the shirt. Letting it fall to the ground.

They stared at each other, twin smiles blooming on their lips. Their gazes were shining with such happiness Joan wanted to laugh. She leaned in instead, tracing a soft kiss on Sherlock’s mouth.

“Let me help you,” she whispered, her fingers already unbuttoning Sherlock’s blouse.

Laying slow, open-mouthed kisses on every inch of skin revealed.

“God… You make me crazy,” Sherlock moaned.

_Pot kettle, darling._

With the last button undone, she tenderly removed Sherlock’s blouse. Then she looked up and admired her lover – flushed skin, red, swollen mouth, panting for breath, looking at Joan like she has never seen someone so wonderful.

Voice rough with desire, she murmured “Tell me what you want”.

Her forefinger was stroking the curve of Sherlock’s breast, slipping under the lace just enough to tease.

She has never been so excited in her whole life.

Pupils dilated, Sherlock replied in a soft voice “Show me your breasts. You have no idea how much I have fantasized about them.”

Joan flashed her a coy smile.

“Only if you show me yours.”

Sherlock didn’t waste any time unclasping her bra, revealing her small, perfectly round boobs. Joan removed with ease the sports bra she was wearing. Her breasts were heavier, fuller, her large pink nipples getting hard and pointed up.

“That’s how you imagine them?” she teased, pinching and rolling a nipple between her fingers.

Without any warning, Sherlock put her hand on hers, her nimble fingers squeezing and stroking the satiny skin, picking up the instinctive rhythm when Joan, who was shivering with want, was unable to keep up any longer.

“They’re as perfect as you are,” Sherlock whispered in her ear before lowering her head and kissing the other breast. She opened her mouth, tonguing the areola until it was wet with saliva.

“Sher… Sherlock!” Joan cried out.

She couldn’t endure it any longer. She wanted her fingers, her tongue inside her right now.

Her lover released her breast, licking her skin until she reached her earlobe.

“Let’s go to bed, beautiful.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two women having fun with each other... What's not to love? :)

Joan didn’t really know they have reached Sherlock’s bedroom until she felt her legs brushing against the bed frame. All she was aware of was her lover – her hands relentlessly stroking and squeezing, cupping her large breasts, her mouth on her neck, her collarbone, her teeth softly nipping her skin.

With anyone else, Joan would have said “Mind the teeth!”. She hated her lovers leaving love bites where anyone could see them. It was bloody embarrassing and besides, it seemed to her that any bruise of this kind just screamed “YOU ARE MINE”. For someone who cherished her independence, it was just unbearable.

That rule didn’t seem to apply when Sherlock was concerned, though.

It bloody figures, she thought, giving as good as she got.

Their half-dressed state was driving her crazy. She wanted Sherlock completely naked, finally discovering her body in all its glory, from the long legs to the soft curves of her hips she could feel through the thick fabric of her trousers.

“Take it off”, she whispered, lightly tugging on the belt.

Sherlock seemed to consider it for a while. Then she looked up – red, puffy lips, colour high in her cheeks, eyes blazing with lust and affection. She was breath-taking and Joan felt herself falling completely under her spell.

“I have another idea…” she murmured before softly pushing Joan backwards. She took the hint and lay down on the bed, her eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face. Joan made no attempt at coyness – she knew her body and wasn’t shy of it. Granted, she wasn’t overly fond of the bullet scar on her left shoulder, but she has made her peace with it for a long time.

And judging from Sherlock’s dark, hungry gaze, she couldn’t care less about it.

“Like what you see?” she asked with a flirtatious smile.

“You certainly like to tease me,” Sherlock retorted, trying to sound like she wasn’t affected and completely missing the mark.

“It’s only fair. You have teased me for months,” Joan replied, her fingers playing with the waistband of her pyjama bottoms, slipping under it, stroking the hot skin underneath. Gosh, that felt good. And it would feel even better when Sherlock finally decided to join her. For the moment she was still standing in front of her, her eyes riveted to Joan’s hands.

She was about to bite her lip and to give her best come-hither look when her lover once again surprised her.

“Since I’ve teased you for months… You won’t mind if I do that then.”

And without further ado, she unzipped her fly, took off her trousers. In a swift gesture betraying her nervousness, she got rid of her pants.

She stood up again, revealing her body to Joan’s gaze - the long neck, the small and slender breasts, the flat belly, the ridges of her hipbones without forgetting the dark bush of hair between her legs.

Joan swallowed heavily, torn between raging arousal and the need to reassure Sherlock, who certainly wasn’t used to this kind of intimacy.

“You’re gorgeous.”

She didn’t miss the shadow of a smile on Sherlock’s lips.

“You know you didn’t have to… I mean, if you didn’t want to…”

Great. She was mumbling like a schoolgirl on her first date now.

“I know,” Sherlock simply said. “And I wanted to. Like I want you to touch me here…” She stroked the soft skin between her breasts. “ Here…” Her finger skirted round her belly button.

“And here.”

Her fingers threaded into her pubic hair, dropping lower. Joan felt her mouth go dry. Sherlock opened her legs a little, just enough so Joan could see her fingers slipping in her sex.

She could hear faint squishing sounds. The only lamp in the room cast her light on her lover, revealing her milky white skin and the wet traces on the inside of her thighs.

Sherlock tossed her head back, a soft moan escaping her mouth.

Joan didn’t even recognize her voice when she said “Come here. Please.”

Sherlock didn’t waste any time, crawling on her hands and knees on her bed like some feral cat which has got free.

“These won’t be necessary,” she whispered, yanking on Joan’s pyjama bottoms. Too far gone to say something, Joan arched up her hips. Finally naked, she opened her legs and sighed with pleasure when Sherlock slowly pinned her down to the bed, her hands on her wrists.

They kissed ferociously, ardently, passionately.

Snogging until their lips were raw.

Hands stroking, squeezing, fondling, never being able to stay put.

Pouring all the love which has been hidden until today in every gesture, every whisper, every whimper.

Joan was completely delirious with joy and pleasure, a part of herself still refusing to believe that it was real, that Sherlock was in her arms.

_My friend. My lover._

Sherlock lifted her head, panting for breath, her curly hair a mussed disaster.

“Joan…”

“Yes, love?”

She didn’t even think of the pet name escaping her lips.

Fuck!

But any blame she could take for it was stopped by Sherlock’s soft kiss on her lips.

“Do you trust me?”

“With my life.”

Sherlock’s gaze was shining with so much affection Joan could do nothing else but reach out and holding her close.

“What do you want?”

“I want to make you come.”

A surge of heat made Joan arch up into her lover. Sherlock took this opportunity to roll them over, lying flat on her back. She put her hands on Joan’s arse, lightly squeezing her cheeks.

“And now sit up.”

“What are you… Oh!”

Goodness. The very idea of doing this with Sherlock…

“You’re sure?”

For sole answer, her lover pulled her forward until Joan’s legs were caging her head.

“Come here,” Sherlock growled, her hands on Joan’s hips. Careful not to crush her lover, Joan slowly obeyed. But at the first stroke of Sherlock’s tongue against her clit, she cried out.

“Sher…”

“Too late darling. Shhh now. I’m going to devour you.”

And she certainly did, licking Joan’s sex, teasing her clit, fingers stroking her opening.

“Oh… Oh… Harder, please!”

She couldn’t endure this long. Heat was engulfing her, setting her ablaze.

Sherlock groaned, putting her free arm on Joan’s thigh.

She was stroking herself.

It was enough for Joan to climax with an inarticulate cry.

And Sherlock soon followed her with a shout.

Together, Joan thought, drowning in a wave of pleasure. They were together.

Finally.

 

Dawn found them cuddling in Sherlock’s bed.

Joan was stroking absentmindedly Sherlock’s belly. Not yet ready for round three, but getting there.

At least if I don’t fall asleep, she thought with a yawn.

“Joan?”

She looked up, leaning on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I was thinking about you said.”

“Which bit, specifically? Because I remembered saying a lot of things to you tonight…”

Joan couldn’t be sure in the shadowy light surrounding the room, but Sherlock seemed to blush.

“I mean… about you being left out in Cox’s case.”

“Oh.”

Her hand stopped moving and she held her breath.

“You…” Sherlock hesitated, licking her lips. “You were right. I should have talked to you about it and…”

She was getting nervous. Joan put her forefinger on Sherlock’s mouth.

“Hush.”

Sherlock huffed against her skin.

“But…”

“I know. I know what you mean and I promise we’re going to talk about that soon. Especially that now we…”

She stopped, suddenly afraid of being too forward. Was Sherlock even thinking…

Her lover rolled her eyes, turned to her.

“Especially that we’re together, aren’t we?”

Joan couldn’t help her dopey smile.

“Yes.”

_Finally._

And if she still had any doubts about it, Sherlock’s soft smile blew them away.

“Are we obliged to talk right now?”

For sole answer, Joan kissed her long and deep.

 


End file.
